They need to be unpacked and hung out to-night. There’ll be a lot of pressing. The cleaners have been in but the room’s not ready. You can finish in the morning but she wants the things that can’t be ironed — I wouldn’t know — hung out. Here are the keys. We’ll see how you get on and fix up something definite to-morrow if you suit. The night-watchman’s there. He’ll open the room for you. Say I sent you. Here!”

He fished out a wallet, found a card and scribbled on it. “He’s a bit of a stickler: you’d better take this.”

She took the card and the keys. “To-night?” she said. “Now?”

“Well, can you?”

“I — yes. But—”

“Not worrying about after-hours are you?”

“No.”

For the first time he seemed, in the darkish foyer, to be looking closely at her. “I suppose,” he muttered, “it’s a bit—” and stopped short

Martyn said in a voice that to herself sounded half-choked: “I’m perfectly trustworthy. You spoke of references. I have—”

“Oh, yes, yes,” he said. “Good. That’ll be O.K. then. I’m late. Will you be all right? You can go through the house. It’s raining outside. Through there, will you? Thank you. Good night”

Taking up her suitcase, she went through the door he swung open and found herself in the theatre.

She was at the back of the stalls, standing on thick carpet at the top of the ramp and facing the centre aisle. It was not absolutely dark. The curtain was half-raised and a bluish light filtered in from off-stage through some opening — a faintly discerned window — in the scenery. This light was dimly reflected on the shrouded boxes. The dome was invisible, lost in shadow, and so far above that the rain, hammering on the roof beyond it, sounded much as a rumour of drums to Martyn. The deadened air smelt of naphthalene and plush.

She started off cautiously down the aisle. “I forgot,” said Mr. Grantley’s voice behind her. She managed to choke back a yelp. “You’d better get some flowers for the dressing-room. She likes roses. Here’s another card.”